


Scar Song

by Nemesischaris



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bellatrix as Sebille, Discord: Bellamione Coven, Discord: Bellamione Cult, Divinity, F/F, Godwoken, Hermione as Ifan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemesischaris/pseuds/Nemesischaris
Summary: Hermione’s voice quivers, her vocal cords unaccustomed to the amount of stain she is putting them through, but she continues to sing like her life depends on it—because Bellatrix’s life depends on it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	Scar Song

**Author's Note:**

> I blame my best friend for this. She got me addicted to Divinity 2: Original Sin and I cannot unsee Bellatrix as Sebille. Everything else just kinda fell into place.

Hermione’s voice quivers, her vocal cords unaccustomed to the amount of stain she is putting them through, but she continues to sing like her life depends on it—because Bellatrix’s life depends on it. 

Bellatrix, who is currently kneeling on the floor with both hands clutching her head, trembling and whimpering at the feet of a hooded figure. Bellatrix. Her acquaintance since waking up on an unfamiliar ship. Her partner in crime in escaping prison. Her companion in this ridiculous quest for divinity. Her… girlfriend? Lover? They haven’t talked about what to label their relationship yet. Bellatrix is still getting used to soft touches, still skittish with affection. But they are heading there. The small smiles. The handholds. The reluctant hugs. All the precious things that will be lost if Hermione loses.

—

Consciousness brings back regret and anger. Two strong emotions no amount of alcohol or drugs have been able to suppress. And as expected, they even outweigh the splitting headache and distracting weight around her neck. 

Shaking those thoughts away, Hermione focuses on understanding her current predicament. She remembers receiving a new job. She remembers drinking herself numb in the Undertavern of Driftwood. She remembers taking some drudanae, the hallucinogenic plant is the only thing that allows her to relax nowadays. She remembers being attacked by a tiger and using her source to summon her eagle. She remembers screams and a flurry of red robes descending upon her. 

Idiot! 

She feels the source collar around her neck preventing her from accessing her source magic. The sound of waves rocking against the wooden hull and the salt in the air all but confirms Hermione’s suspicions. She was on an Order vessel sailing to Azkaban. 

She sighs. At least her friends are no longer around to see the mighty Hermione Granger, once a high ranking official in the Order, being collared like a mad dog and thrown into jail because of an imaginary tiger!

Hermione first spots her sitting in a corner talking to herself. Her diamond-like features, regal and radiant but cold and sharp, stood out like a sore thumb amongst the commoners aboard the ship. As she moves closer to the stranger, a pair of dice lazily roll onto the surface of a barrel. “Snake eyes,” the stranger chuckles. “I bet that’s just what they’ll look like.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She shakes her head without looking up. “Game for one, I’m afraid. Rolling dice. Deciding fates.”

Hermione frowns, “whose fate?”

“Don’t worry, Pet. It isn’t yours.” Cat-like eyes finally look up. They travel up and down Hermione’s body before settling on honey-brown ones. A hint of a coy grin stretches across her features. “Never say never though. May I lick your arm?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. She isn’t quite sure why she approached the beautiful stranger in the first place, but she’s definitely not going to say no—dark, mysterious ladies have always been a particular weakness of hers. She extends her arm and watches the other woman like a hawk.

The stranger licks in a long, vigorous stroke like a cat and hums in what Hermione can only describe as delight. “I also prefer the fairer sex, Pet,” she purrs. But then her voice turned serious, “Regret is a powerful motivation… and so is revenge.”

Hermione jerks her arm back and stares at her wide-eyed. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Of course not.” She chuckles playfully, “but the truths right there. Skin deep. Don’t worry, Pet. I don’t lick and tell.” The woman turns back to her game of dice and promptly ignores Hermione’s presence.

Azkaban is an old island fortress off the coast of the mainland that the Order has repurposed as a prison for Sourcerers—people that can channel powerful magic that consumes life force called Source. While the magic itself is not inherently evil, it’s usage tends to attract the attention of monstrous Voidwokens that almost always end in a bloodbath. Thus, anyone performing source magic is guaranteed a one-way ticket to Azkaban “for their safety and the safety of others''. While Hermione never had to set foot on the island while she was in the Order, she is quite familiar with the working of the prison. Basically, the prisoners are free to roam the fort and do whatever they want as long as they stay out of restricted areas and don’t cause too much problem for the guards. Prisoners are free to trade and fight amongst themselves without intervention, but as soon as a guard is involved, then all hell breaks loose.

Thus, it wasn’t a surprise to Hermione when she catches her beautiful stranger stalking a guy like a cat stalking a mouse. 

Hermione saunters up to the crouching figure. She clears her voice, “what does a girl have to do to earn that kind of stare?”

In a blink of an eye, the woman turns around and grabs Hermione in a stranglehold. She feels the tip of a long needle being pushed a little ways into her neck.

“You caught me off guard. No-one catches me off guard. Better tell me who you really are, or this time I’ll let my needle do the licking.”

“My apologies, it isn’t my intention to startle you.”

“But you did!” she growls. She gives Hermione a push and a pivot. Then suddenly, they come face to face, their nose only a few inches apart. The needle is still deeply embedded in the side of Hermione’s throat.

Hermione, undaunted by the display, uses this time to study her captor’s face more thoroughly. A curtain of wild black mane frames her diamond features. Black feline eyes glare at her with a mixture of intense annoyance and mild curiosity. Amidst her perfect, proud features, however, is a curiously shaped scar on her left cheek. Hermione fights back the impulse to trace the scar with her fingertips. “How did you get that scar?” she asks instead.

“You’re an intriguing one, Pet.” The woman leans back slightly before continuing, “very well, let me indulge you with a little story: Once upon a bad old-time, a man cut this thing, this  _ living scar  _ into my cheek: the mark of a slave. But now, I’m free and I’ve traced that man here to Azkaban. I intend to raise the subject with him.”

“I’m not that guy,” Hermione replies calmly.

She drives the needle in deeper and hisses, “in truth, it does not matter in the least who you really are, Pet. You saw me mark my prey. You could warn him, save him, or kill him before I get my chance. That makes you a liability. That makes  **you** needle feed.”

“Or… instead of killing me, you can join me. I’m escaping this blasted place and have need of people with talents like yours.” Hermione receives a barking laugh in return. 

“You’re not just a pretty face, are you? Bold and hilarious, too. I admit I had not seen that twist coming. I was certain the pitiful begging was about to begin.” She pouts, almost as if she is disappointed by the lack of said begging. “And how are you planning to escape? Most of the misguided dears around here would argue such a thing is impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Hermione scoffs.

“A silly thing to say, but then again, I did think catching me off guard was impossible.” Her eyes narrow as if calculating her next step. “You know what? Today is a rather fine day. Sunshine and an easy breeze. Yes, I’ll let you live. I’ll even agree to travel with you, provided we talk to that man I mentioned. I’m not quite sure the weather will save him.” Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, the needle is gone and she smiles as if she just invited Hermione to sit down for tea. “Bellatrix, at your service.”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Now, Pet, I believe we have an urgent meeting with that man over there.”

“Lead the way.”

Hermione stumbles backward, putting as much distance as she can between herself and that accused statute. Looking around, she sees that her companions also have a similar dazed look upon their faces. 

They had just finished exploring a mysterious cave and defeated an undead mage guarding its treasures. They found what they came for, the purging wand, a key element to escaping the island. Then suddenly, Luna called them into a hidden room. The only thing in it was an ancient, grey statue with a missing head and broken arms. Luna claimed the Nargles led her into this room and that it was paramount that they interact with the statue. Hermione was ready to brush off the blonde’s comments and in turn, too late to stop Luna from touching the grey stone. 

Hermione felt herself being pulled in four different directions. Eventually, one side won out and she found herself standing in an ethereal space. Gryffindor, the god of fire and the patron of lionhearts, stood in front of her, proclaimed her as his champion, and instructed her on the path of Divinity. She was godwoken, he claimed, and together, they will defeat the other gods and their champions. Together, they will protect the world from the void and set everything right again.

She left the meeting, being thrown back into her world, befuddled and enraged. Hermione has no interest in the melding of gods or joining them. Her faith in the Divine and the gods died the day the recently deceased Divine, Dumbledore, ordered the release of deathfog and killed millions of innocent lives. If she was indeed so great and powerful, why wasn’t she fast enough to save them? Why wasn’t she able to save her best friend? 

A tap on her shoulder brings her back into the present. Bellatrix, the champion of Slytherin, eyes her with concern. Cedric, the champion of Hufflepuff, looks at her with a newfound purpose in his eyes. Luna, the champion of Ravenclaw, looks at her expectantly with her usual dreamy eyes. Hermione shakes her head—she will worry about this later. She needs to focus on securing a way back to the mainland.

A campfire burns softly in the center of a ring of tents. Hermione is the only one awake, keeping an eye out for trouble. They are somewhere in the forest northeast of the city Driftwood on their way to a mercenary camp that Bellatrix’s next target operates from. The four of them have been running around in Reaper’s Coast in search of source masters as instructed by their respected gods. They still have a lot to learn when it comes to harnessing source magic. And while Hermione couldn’t care less about what Gryffindor wants, she is interested in learning. But after a close call with a powerful demon and a confrontation with a crazy cult leader, the four of them agreed to take a break from all this source nonsense. Thus, this little detour to the Snatcher’s camp. 

The shuffling of leaves alerts her to a nearby presence, she subtlety flips the safety off on her crossbow. Seconds later, Bellatrix walks up to her and takes a seat. Hermione regards the woman with a nod while putting the safety back on. They sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the other’s company. As the night goes on, they find themselves shifting closer and closer. 

Hermione glances down at the fingers that are almost touching her thigh. She follows them upward and settles her gaze on Bellatrix’s right arm. Hidden there is a list of names, carved in flesh, of the people she had wronged during her servitude to the Master. People that she had killed for her Master’s enjoyment. A memento to a past life she is trying to rectify. Her eyes shift to the other arm and the names carved there. A couple of the names, including Rookwood, the man Bellatrix was hunting in Azkaban has been crossed out. The one underneath Rookwood is Greyback, the current leader of the Snatchers. The last one on the list is the Master.

“You never explained how it actually worked—the Master and the scar.”

Hermione receives a sideward glare and a sneer, “and I remember saying I’d probably never tell you.”

Hermione shrugs and returns her gaze to the fire. If Bellatrix isn’t comfortable telling her story, she’s not going to pry. 

After a few minutes of silence, Bellatrix stands up and leaves. Hermione shoves down the irrational disappointment correlated with the woman’s departure. To Hermione’s surprise, she returns a few moments after.

Bellatrix flops down next to Hermione and takes a large swig from a small flask. Tears stream from her eyes as she offers Hermione the flask. Hermione stares at her with wide eyes, shock and confusion decorate her features.

“They are tears of joy, I assure you. Have some joy.”

Hermione accepts it. It burns all the way down. Soon, the tears run down her cheeks as well.

“Not bad is it? So good it has us crying like babies. Now then,” she clears her throat, “the epic of the Master and the Scar.”

Hermione cuts her off, placing a hand on her knee. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Bellatrix covers Hermione’s hand with her own. “I want to,” she says seriously, “I trust you, Pet.”

“Okay.”

Bellatrix clears her throat again and gestures dramatically. “The epic of the Master and the Scar… It began when I woke in a dark room. He removed my blindfold, and still, I could not see. He himself was darker than any shadow but I could hear him—hear him give the orders to another. Rookwood. How he came to regret the actions he performed that day.” She pauses to chuckle at that. “The Master bid the Dreamer dream, and so he did. He sat there. I could feel his hands upon my cheeks. He trembled, as if in pain. I didn’t know what was going on until quite suddenly his right hand became a flame. I screamed as he traced the design of the scar into my searing flesh, but I could not move—not an inch. And all the while the Master looked on in the darkest silence.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The best is yet to come, Pet. So.. Once the scarring was over and the pain began to fade, the training began. With words, whistles, snaps of the fingers even, the Master could make me obey his every command. Young, strong, smart—you know I don’t exactly lack in qualities. Didn’t take him long to train me in the arts of stealth, subterfuge, and assassination. It shakes me little now, all too little, but that first time… that first real kill… it was stuff nightmares are made of.”

Hermione’s hands seek out Bellatrix’s and give her an encouraging squeeze. 

“I was in a wood, but the trees there were sick—grey, leafless hydras sticking out of ashen earth. There were no stars that night. She sat shivering besides a fire. I was nervous. I had to chase her. My hand hated itself, tried to resist, but there is no resisting the Master’s song. My stabs weren’t as mercifully exact as they should have been. I had to bring down the needle again and again as her screams flooded the forest with terror. When it was done, I crawled back to the Master, broken; crept back into my box. And through its lid, he told me I had done well. Next time I’d do better.” She spits out the last sentence with disgust.

“The Master and the Scar… It’s an epic that deserves to be unwritten.”

“Pet, you understand me completely. With this needle, I’ll kill him, and with this needle, I’ll strike his name from my skin. The bastard will be Master no longer.”

“And I’ll be by your side the entire way.”

—

Hermione will not lose. She will not lose to this slaver, this monster, in front of them. She remembers how just a few seconds ago the Master snapped his fingers and Bellatrix automatically dropped to her knees. Hermione’s blood boils at the display, at the injustice. Bellatrix is a free woman, she broke free of her box, of his chains. But not of his influence as Bellatrix had warned her. 

So she sings. Bellatrix’s scar song. The beautiful melody that has no words but is hauntingly menacing. A simple song that would make her beloved, stubborn, free-willed Bellatrix a mindless slave once more if the Master finishes his song. 

So she sings to oppose him. Hermione recalls Bellatrix’s hesitation when she opened up with her insecurities and vulnerabilities laid bare for Hermione to see. Hermione remembers the trust and the hope shining in Bellatrix’s eyes when she taught her the song. So Hermione sings with all her strength she can muster and all the love in her heart.

—

Hermione throws back another shot of firewhiskey. She did it… She finished her job… She killed Ron, a top-ranking Order official that used to be one of her best friends. She can’t help but wonder how the Order’s Golden Trio has turned out like this: Harry—dead, sacrificed so that she may live. Ron—dead, killed by her own hands for participating in genocide. And Hermione—wasted drunk, soon to be killed by alcohol poisoning.

She scoffs at herself and takes another shot. She should have been the one that died that day and Harry should be the one seeking divinity. He was the heart of the Trio—the compassionate leader. He would have made a great Divine replacing that scheming, old bastard Dumbledore. She was just a bookworm that’s good with strategies. Now, she’s just a self-exiled mercenary drowning in failure. She doesn’t understand why Gryffindor chose her—she’s the definition of unworthiness.

Someone slides into the empty seat next to her and gently pries the next shot of whiskey from her hand. “You’re going to drink yourself into an early grave, Pet.”

“That’s exactly the plan,” she slurs. She reaches for the bottle but that too is taken away from her. “Is there a reason you’ve come to disrupt my ‘celebration’?”

“Is that what this is? I could have sworn this is a pity party.”

“Call it whatever you want, just give me back my drink!”

“No.”

Hermione growls in annoyance, “why?”

“Because—” Bellatrix looks down at her with an unreadable expression, “—you’re being stupid and as irrational as it may be, I have grown too fond of you to continue to watch you make a fool of yourself.”

“It’s none of your business what I do and don’t do!”

“On the contrary, I plan on helping you become the next Divine, so it is my business.”

Hermione opens her mouth and closes it. She’s too drunk for this conversation but Bellatrix doesn’t seem to care.

“From what I’ve gathered, you are the most qualified one. I have no interest in Divinity. I just want to be me for a change. Cedric is a yes-man—he has a good heart but he lacks the mental fortitude to make the tough decisions—not really the qualities you want in a Divine. And Luna… Well, let’s just say she’ll need to come down to earth more if she has any intention of ruling it.” 

Hermione shakes her head sadly, “if you knew my past, you wouldn’t be putting me on a pedestal.”

Bellatrix chuckles, “Pet, if anyone knows about a jaded past—” she pulls up the sleeve of her right arm, the names gleam in the candlelight “—it’s me. You’re the one who put this ragtag group of godwokens together. You got us out of Azkaban and off the island. You eliminated a bunch of dangerous individuals and saved the people of Reaper’s Coast from voidwoken over and over again. Sure, you can rationalize that the main reason why you did most of those things was to get to your target, but you also never hesitated to offer a helping hand along the way. And when push comes to shove, you don’t hesitate to shove back.” 

Hermione looks down at her hands to consider Bellatrix’s words. Yes, she did some good but were they enough? Will anything she does ever be enough? She squeezes her eyes shut; this is all too much for her alcohol-induced state.

A pair of slim hands wrap themselves around Hermione’s. Bellatrix stands up and tugs at Hermione’s, “come on, Pet.”

Hermione grunts out her displeasure but doesn’t fight Bellatrix as she pulls her to her feet. She sways dangerously from side to side but Bellatrix is there to half support and half carry her as they make the short trek from the galley to her cabin. 

Hermione falls onto her bed unceremoniously and pulls Bellatrix down with her. She holds her tightly and buries her face into Bellatrix’s black mane.

Bellatrix chuckles, “was this your ploy all along, Pet? To get me into your bed?”

Hermione mumbles something incoherently. Her eyelids are suddenly heavy. She feels a soft pressure on her forehead. The last thing she hears before she drifts off to sleep is, “sweet dreams, Pet.”

Hermione wakes up to a comfortable warmth behind her. She turns around seeking blindly for the source of the heat. Hugging it close to her, she drifts back to sleep. The next time she wakes up, she sees Bellatrix beaming radiantly at her. Hermione wants nothing more than to wake up every morning in her arms. She vows to do everything in her power to be worthy of this magnificent goddess—including taking this Divinity thing seriously.

Hermione is sorting through her arrows when Bellatrix slides her hand into Hermione’s. The gesture and the accompanying coquettish smile make Hermione’s heart skip a beat.

“I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

Hermione smiles back. “I love it when you smile at me like that. What did I do to earn it?”

“You earned it just by being… You.” Bellatrix tries to shrug casually but Hermione could see the tension in her movements. Hermione brings their joined hands to her lips. Bellatrix has been tense and twitching involuntarily ever since they docked. She has a pretty good guess why the other woman was acting like this.

“You see… thing thing is...” Bellatrix stumbles over her words nervously, “I… I’m afraid you’re going to accuse me of killing the mood, but… I need to talk to you about the Master.”

“I was hoping this might have been about me,” Hermione replies as she tries to lighten the mood.

“It is about you! More so than anything else.” Hermione detects a hint of pleading as Bellatrix rushes out those words. She nods encouragingly for Bellatrix to continue. “Pet, I’ve grown to lo… trust you. More than I’ve trusted anyone since… since I’ve had names on my skin.”

An amused smirk tugs on Hermione’s lips, “I trust you, too. So much.”

Bellatrix releases a shaking breath. “Come, sit down with me for a moment.”

They sit down, cross-legged, knees to knees, hand in hand. 

Suddenly, Bellatrix sings a song. She uses no words. The melody strikes Hermione as beautiful yet sinister. “This is my scar song,” she whispers. “It’s all the Master needs to make me his slave once more. Unless your voice opposes his.” 

Hermione’s heart breaks at how little and terrified the other woman looks right now.

“I will soon confront him, with you by my side. My life and my liberty I place in these soft, strong hands of yours.” When Bellatrix looks up, Hermione sees tears running down porcelain cheeks. “Will you sing?”

Hermione reaches up to wipe away the tears. “I’ll do anything for you.”

“Good answer.”

Bellatrix’s eyes close as she leans in for a kiss. Hermione meets her lips tenderly. 

The kiss is sweet and slow. Hermione’s heart flutter at how their lips fit perfectly with each other, at how Bellatrix’s taller frame seamlessly melts into hers. They pull away, smiling warmly at each other. Neither one of them speaks—not wanting to break the moment. Hermione traces the scar on Bellatrix’s cheek with her thumb. Bellatrix shudders but leans into her touch. She wishes this could last forever.

As if on cue, Hermione hears a knock on the door and Cedric’s voice saying he and Luna are ready. She turns to the door and shouts, “we’ll be out in a sec.” Turning back, she’s met with another short peck on the lips.

“Adventure calls, but I say we do this again sometime,” Bellatrix purrs.

Hermione wholeheartedly agrees.

—

Hermione’s voice harmonies with the Master’s. Opposing voices fighting for control. 

He hesitates for a millisecond and her voice becomes the dominant melody. 

He tries to fight back, but Hermione is relentless, undeterred. 

Bellatrix visually relaxes as Hermione finishes the song. 

The Master takes a step back. 

Bellatrix shoots Hermione a grateful smile before pouncing like the hunter she is.

Bellatrix strikes true—her needle pierces his neck and severs his vocal cords. He staggers back clutching his bleeding neck. His hood falls off, revealing furious red eyes. 

Faint popping sounds surround their small group. They are surrounded.

Hermione steadies her crossbow and summons her eagle. Cedric draws his sword and readies his shield. Luna slams the pommel of her staff on the ground and summons her incarnate.

The Master draws his own sword. But before he can do anything else, Bellatrix lunges again, this time with her daggers. She cackles with each strike.

Hermione smirks and shoots at a nearby enemy. 

Bellatrix’s hunt is over. 

She can’t wait to finish this fight and head back to their private quarters on their ship. Divinity and the gods can wait. 

Celebrations are in order.


End file.
